


The Art of Giving Up

by dementorsatemysoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multiple Off-Screen Deaths, Sterek-ish if you squint, Zombie Apocalypse, au-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dementorsatemysoup/pseuds/dementorsatemysoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the end of the world and Stiles has had enough</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Giving Up

The town burned, fire lighting up the night sky. Through the window, Stiles could hear a woman screaming, one of _them_ gnawing on her neck-he had stopped associating _them_ with humans a while ago. Blood pooled around her, even more dripping from the _thing’s_ mouth and down _its_ chin, staining _its_ already torn and soiled shirt.

Stiles heard footsteps approach him but didn’t turn, his eyes still watching the woman. Her screams died down and she went limp, but the _thing_ hardly seemed to notice. To _it_ the lack of screams was just less noise _it_ had to deal with, and _it_ could enjoy _its_ meal in peace.

“She’s going to become one soon,” he heard a familiar, soft voice say.

“We all will eventually,” he retorted turning away from the window, meeting pale, green eyes. They were all that was left of the original group. During the initial outbreak, they hadn’t been sure if werewolves could be infected, but when Isaac got bitten and started to change their suspicions were confirmed. Derek had been the one to put him down. Peter followed, and surprisingly he died protecting Stiles and Erica. His death had also probably been the most brutal; they had only found pieces of him.

Lydia was bitten next, during a routine patrol of the city, and she managed to infect Erica before Scott and Jackson put her down. After Erica was killed, Boyd disappeared. They found him a week later, already turned into one of _them._ It had been Stiles’ first kill.

Scott was next, and he volunteered to take himself out. Allison killed herself the next day, in the bathroom, while the rest of the group had been out gathering supplies. Jackson had been the one to find her, following the scent of blood. They buried her under an old willow, next to Deaton and their parents (the majority having been turned during the first wave).

Danny and Jackson were turned together, the latter dragged away during a patrol while the former’s neck was ripped open. That had been a week ago, and neither Stiles nor Derek had left the loft since.

“We’re going to have to get supplies soon,” Derek commented leaning against a pillar, crossing his arms. His eyes, already haunted from past mistakes, had taken on a dull, almost lifeless appearance, and Stiles feared for the Alpha’s sanity. Just how far could Derek be pushed before he snapped? And what exactly was keeping him from snapping?

“I know,” Stiles replied nodding, chewing on his bottom lip. He hated going out there. Every time they went out there they ran into another person they knew, another victim they couldn’t save, another _them._ _They_ were winning, had been for quite some time, and sometimes Stiles wondered why he and Derek kept fighting. Wouldn’t it just be easier to throw in the towel and join the winning side?

“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t give up,” Derek murmured catching Stiles’ attention. The younger boy looked up, noticing the flicker of fury in the werewolf’s eyes. At least it was something, and suddenly Stiles wanted to see more emotions behind those almost glassy, green eyes; something other than crushing defeat.

“We agreed to that a week ago, Derek. Back when we actually had a fighting chance. Now we’re just two sitting ducks, waiting for the end of our lives.” Stiles’ words made the Alpha flinch and he broke eye contact, looking down at the floor. “I say we let ‘em in, let them have us.” Despite wanting to get a reaction out of the older guy, Stiles also meant every single word. He just wanted it to be over.

“Don’t say that,” Derek whispered to the floor. “Don’t you say that.”

“There’s only so much optimism I can muster up, Der, and I used my quota during the first week! Just face the facts, eventually we’re going to have to give up!” Stiles threw his hands in the air, turning his back on the Alpha, but not before he spotted more fury in those pale, green eyes; fury and something akin to determination. “And I’d rather it be on my terms and not during another ambush.”

He turned back to look at the werewolf, and found himself slamming, back first, into the wall. Derek fisted Stiles’ shirt, breeching Stiles’ personal bubble, his eyes bright red with anger, and he softly snarled, “You can’t give up. You of all people cannot give up.”

“Why? We’re dead anyway,” Stiles whispered, no longer afraid of the Alpha, leaning forward, their noses nearly touching. “And the moment you accept that is the moment we can get this over with.”

Derek’s grip slackened on Stiles’ shirt, his whole body seeming to sag against the younger guy. Their foreheads met and Derek murmured, “You are the only one keeping me going. If you give up…” He trailed off, pushing himself away from Stiles, turning his back on him. “I need you.”

Those three words stopped Stiles cold. Derek _needed_ him? Never, in the three years they’ve known each other, had Derek made such an honest, almost heart breaking admission (at least not to Stiles). He didn’t share his feelings; he kept them bottled up where nobody could reach them.

“Derek, I…” Stiles took a step forward, slowly, hesitantly resting a hand on the werewolf’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Derek muttered but Stiles knew better. It wasn’t fine. He shouldn’t have said any of that. They had to stick together in order to survive, and they couldn’t just randomly give up if things got tough. Those _things_ may have the upper hand, they may be winning now, but at some point the tables would turn. The tables _had_ to turn.

Stiles wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but eventually the younger boy released the older boy’s shoulder, taking a step back. He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair, and said, “We should go.”

“Yeah,” Derek replied quietly, nodding.

As Stiles moved around the room, grabbing his gun off the end table, he turned to say something to Derek, but found him gone. The empty room suddenly felt cold, lonely, and slowly the younger boy lowered himself onto the rickety bed.

He tried not to think about it, it hurt too much to think about it, but sometimes it crept up on him. They had returned from the patrol, having been forced to leave Danny and Jackson behind, when Stiles noticed the blood drenching Derek’s t-shirt. He had managed to get bitten, one of _them_ taking a chunk out of his side.

Derek had been Stiles’ second kill.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I've been experimenting with surprise endings. I wrote this before Season Three began, so Cora hadn't been introduced yet. Which is why she was not mentioned, but I'm sure in this situation she would have fought to the end (in case you haven't noticed I actually like Cora).
> 
> So, thanks for reading and drop me a comment if you can.


End file.
